A Taste Of Memory
by Kay Taylor
Summary: Companion piece to Seven Days In A Sepia Room. Lucius, Severus, Tom and Draco: the connections between them.


He struggles, at first.  
  
Launches himself towards Lucius in a flurry of fists and strong teenage arms, hitting out frantically, one hand tangling in his white-blond hair and pulling, until blue spots of pain flare up behind Lucius's eyes. Breathing hard as Lucius slams him up against the wall, hard enough to make the wooden panels creak in protest, hard enough to knock the breath out of the boy. He's strong, but Lucius is a Beater, all angular muscles and hard upper arms, and he revels in that strength, laughing out loud as his captive puts up a damn good fight.  
  
Eventually, it all subsides into hush – Lucius's strong hands pin him to the wall, his weight shifted so he's leaning in close enough to touch, body to body, tense and alert.  
  
And now he can look at his prize, this thin picture-ghost, now that all the fight's gone out of him. Dark, raven-black hair falling into his eyes. The boy meets his gaze, defiant, a firm set to his jaw that speaks of how beautiful he'll be when he's broken.  
  
And green eyes.  
  
Lucius knows who this is.  
  
Severus is suspicious, of course. He scowls at Lucius, trying to look all intimidating – but eventually he gives in, for the price of a kiss and a night spent together, in which Lucius croons his name and holds him close, tries to stop himself hurting him too much. A fair exchange, for a glamour-bind spell in a tiny vial, like a rainbow caught in oil. And afterwards, as Lucius smokes a cigarette and watches Sev trying to put that delectable composure back together, Severus says yes.  
  
Now, twenty years later, Tom has stopped struggling. There's no antagonism in his eyes, as Lucius walks into the room, walking straight through the spell-bound walls, feeling them ripple around him. Because of course, the walls aren't real – it's enough that Tom thinks they're real, and the boy that once, in another life, grew up to become feared and hated can't even think his way past a simple glamoury. Sev made them look real enough. He's an expert at making things look real, even more so than Lucius.  
  
How long have I been here, he asks quietly, handing Lucius a cigarette.  
  
It's an imperfect glamoury, of course – after all, Sev was only a sixth year, no matter how precocious. And so there are no colours, really, just the stark monochrome of the moonlight, making the orange-red flare of a cigarette tip the most perfect thing in Tom's existence. Lucius wonders if he even remembers other colours beyond blond hair and ink-blue midnight sky.  
  
Don't you know? Lucius asks, genuinely curious. Tom doesn't move away as he runs his hand up Tom's inner thigh, feeling the subtle play of muscles under the skin. He's brought Tom clothes, in all the years he's been here; butter soft suede and thin silk, always tactle, fabrics that Lucius likes to feel against his skin, cut in that deliciously anachronistic 1940s style. And books, too – he means to educate Tom. A copy of Plato's Symposium lies propped half-open on the pillow, a battered first edition of Mein Kampf on the bedside table. Lucius has hopes for the boy. And being around him always makes the Dark Mark burn so.  
  
Tom shakes his head. It feels like one night, he says finally, leaning forward so that Lucius can light his own cigarette, the brief amber light making his eyes sparkle – for a moment, at least – a beautiful, capricious emerald green.  
  
And Lucius considers how deliciously, horribly ironic it is that he looks just like Harry Potter.  
  
It feels like one night, he says again, his cool voice struggling under the weight of memories, a thousand different moments making up one unending night of the soul. But different. You're different. You were younger. And he looks around the room, his eyes taking in the sheer stone walls, the windows spilling moonlight. And this. It's changed?  
  
Lucius knows that Tom is right. The walls of his prison are starting to wear whisper-thin.  
  
You've met my son, Lucius whispers, and:  
  
Tom replies, his eyes greener than before, drowning-green, like the undertow off a rocky coast.  
  
He tastes like you, Tom murmurs. And he kisses Lucius's neck, skillful fingers slipping between Lucius's legs, and:  
  
How fitting, Lucius replies, capturing Tom's lips in a kiss, butterfly-soft – at least, at first.  
  
And Tom melts into him, they melt into each other, moonlight and smoke and kisses.


End file.
